My sisters and I never saw eye to eye; rather we heard heart to heart through our telephone receivers. We lived a good distance away for most of our lives. And so our connections, close as they were, were nearly always via long distance calls.

The ear pieces on the phone grew increasingly warm and comforting with each laugh, each tease and each word we spoke. We spent hours on the phone, twisting the curly, stretched cord around our body parts, spilling out our hearts and our triumphs and our woes. But there is no record, no evidence, and sadly fewer clear recollections.

So I made up some memories.

* * *

I began to question the wisdom of this trip as soon as the line went dead.

The call Thursday night was unexpected. Sam and Dave – customers from the burger joint I’d worked in back home — had tracked me down in Boston. I’d left home six months earlier, and was surprised that the guys had found me. They had said they were in Boston often and promised to look me up – but so had a lot of people.

Six months away from home hadn’t been nearly as fun as I expected my “coming of age” to be. I hesitated to admit that I was lonely and would love some company. But I hadn’t even thought about Sam and Dave – forgotten them, in fact. Well, I barely knew them to begin with. Sam was tall, blond, nice smile. A well done hamburger with fries; Dave was shorter with shaggy brown hair that he often pulled back. He liked his cheeseburger rare with onion rings. Both drank Coke. One of them drove my favorite car, a 1974 Datsun 240Z. Blue.

“Great, we’ll pick you up Saturday at 10,” one of them said. Was it Dave? He and Sam were on separate extensions and kept finishing each other’s sentences like an old married couple.

“Yeah, Steve gave us the address along with your number. See you Saturday!” said the other – Sam, I guessed. And then they hung up.

They didn’t leave a number so I couldn’t call them back. For that matter, they didn’t leave their last names. First names, a car (cool as it was) and burger preferences. That was all I knew. Yet I had just agreed to spend the weekend with them at the Cape.

At only 19, I hadn’t done too many stupid things with guys yet. So I called my older sister, Judy, 24, who had.

“This is ridiculous,” I told Judy, pacing back and forth across my tiny apartment like a bobcat in the zoo. “I can’t possibly go. I don’t know who they are. And I can’t possibly call them back – they didn’t leave their number. They didn’t leave their last names. They didn’t even tell me where I just agreed to go. God, this has all the makings of a Hitchcock picture.”

“Are you Tippi Hedren or Janet Leigh?” Jude roared at her own joke. “You’ve known these two cute guys for three years and never went out with them? Either of them? Or both of them – together?” she teased. “God you’re boring. You’d be Doris Day in a Hitchcock movie.”

“I’m just going to have to talk to them when they get here on Saturday.”

“Ok,” said Jude, swallowing her laugh. “You’ll talk to them on Saturday. Good plan,” she burst out again, “especially because you can’t talk with them before that because you didn’t get their number,” she said, gasping for breath.

I began to relax. Somehow, when I told my troubles to Judy, they stopped being problems and became situation comedy.

“You’re a huge help. I’ll call you back next time I need abuse.”

“Anytime,” Judy said, hanging up.

I spent Friday at work bouncing between laughing and worrying. I didn’t pack. Of course I wouldn’t go with them – I didn’t even know their last names!

At 10 am Saturday the doorbell rang. “Shit.”

“We’re here,” Dave or Sam said through the intercom system. Another reason not to go – I couldn’t keep them straight. I buzzed them in, and took a deep breath. I still didn’t know what to do.

Did it take an hour for them to climb the two flights or were they upstairs in a flash? Suddenly I felt queasy. “Oh God,” I thought as I shut the bathroom door, “what would Judy do?” I sat on the toilet for the longest time, trying not to panic. At last, I smiled, shrugged and said “oh, what the hell.” I walked back into the main room and said “I’m not quite done packing, but I’ll be just a minute.”

I threw a bathing suit, a change of clothes, and a couple of other things in a backpack. “There’s just one thing,” I said, smiling at my dates, “I’d love to drive the Z.”

* * *

Me, Judy, and Beth, a while ago

*****

This is a reposting. Today would have been my sister Judy’s Earth Day Birthday. I wish I could call her up and give her grief.

As she got older, Jude’s wildness grew. Towards the end I of her life, since she always asked my advice and NEVER took it, I recommended to Judy that she think of what she should do in any given situation AND THEN DO THE OPPOSITE. Alas she never ever listened to me.

good grief, girl … you’re killing me. did you really have to add the Beatles soundtrack? that song always makes me want to weep, but now? well, now I’ll probably never hear it again without thinking about your sister, and by default, thinking of you. which, of course, will make me smile.

happy birthday, Judy. you are obviously missed.

BTW, this part was comic genius: “At only 19, I hadn’t done too many stupid things with guys yet. So I called my older sister, Judy, 24, who had.”

99 you are so very sweet. Sorry to make you cry. I actually think of that as a happy song — whenever I hear it on my way to work I have a good day. My Jude looks after me, I’m thinking. (Although word press doesn’t — what is the problem with inserting actual videos in posts? No matter whether I click on the YouTube thingy or the URL thingy, I get a line and not a video. It’s ticking me off!)

Thank you for pointing out that line. You know how there are a small number of little bits of writing that just feel right? That is one of mine. It is exactly how I felt about her at that time in our relationship. Come to think of it, it’s still pretty true!

Now, I see you were commenting on the comments. I’m off to see what that bodes!

Thanks. I DO have great memories of her. I also have memories of all the times I wanted to throttle her — which were numerous! She was as wonderful as she was frustrating. And her eldest child, my niece, is one of my very closest friends. So I’ve got that going for me…

It’s wonderful to remember Judy with a nice story. The relationship between sisters can be difficult to explain and often runs a gambit of emotions. Like you, it is hard to remember what are real memories and what are…let’s just say…embellished.

The funny thing about it, Michelle, is that I really felt like I spent time with her while I wrote it. I laughed and cried and wanted to kill her — just like a normal conversation with her!

But this isn’t a memory at all — it’s made up. I mean, I did move to Boston, and I did get a call from these two guys inviting me for the weekend at the Cape. But the rest is made up. Except for Judy’s attitude. That’s exactly how she would have/perhaps did react when I told her of the invitation. I mean, after all, my imagination isn’t really that great. Is it?

I think your imagination is terrific! I also think that you probably did have this conversation with her while you were writing it. Sort of a combo made up and reality. I have these kinds of conversations with people I love and have lost all the time.

But there is no rest of the story. Not really. Because it’s fiction. Or mostly fiction. The guys DID call me and invite me to the Cape, but I didn’t go. I was a good girl, and a broke girl. One important lesson I learned from my mother is never go anywhere with a man if you don’t have money to get back home. My mother was smarter than the average bear!

I remember your Earth Day tribute to her last year. I love this line “I began to relax. Somehow, when I told my troubles to Judy, they stopped being problems and became situation comedy.” So many facets in our relationships that when all polished up as you wrote here make wonderful memories. Happy Birthday to your sister, Judy.

Thanks, Georgette. I think that is the quality of Judy’s that I miss most. No matter how bleak things were (and they were for both of us more often than I’d like to remember), she could laugh at anything — and she would step outside of herself and see the situation as if on TV. I can often find the humor but not always.

Thanks, Darls, Since you were thinking the same thing as Exile, I’m going to give you the same answer:

The story is fictionalized. I really am a Doris Day type — they did track me down; they did invite me. But I didn’t go.

I was a good girl, and a broke girl. One important lesson I learned from my mother is never go anywhere with a man if you don’t have the money to get back home. (It is a very good advice to have girls keep “mad money” as my mom called it.)

And I never heard from the guys again! Which would have made my father happy had I ever told HIM this story!

But I will confess, I’ve always wondered what would have happened had I gone!

Actually, nothing happened. The story is fictionalized. I really am a Doris Day type — they did track me down; they did invite me. But I didn’t go.

I was a good girl, and a broke girl. One important lesson I learned from my mother is never go anywhere with a man if you don’t have money to get back home. (It is a very good advice to have girls keep “mad money” as my mom called it.)

And I never heard from the guys again! Which would have made my father happy had I ever told HIM this story!

I love it that even though you told us up front that it was largely fictionalized, or at best, blurred memories, that we all went along for the ride, hook, line, and sinker. Yep, that does speak exactly to your ability to write with conviction, and keep it interesting. Feel free to make up the version where you go and have a wild time, and then feel free to share it with your readers. Even if we know it’s all fiction, we’ll still buy into it. Because you’re THAT good. Really. 🙂

You know, 99, I’ve actually wanted to do a sisters book. But I always feel like my heart is ripped out when I try to, so I don’t. Someday … but as I said, because I didn’t really pay attention to what we were talking about, I don’t have the actual stories. So I have to make them up. Fewer hurt feelings that way, I’m thinking!

Stories like this show me what I missed out on by having only brothers. It’s good to tell these stories, and I am sorry for your loss… I hope that thinking through good memories offers some level of peace.

Stories like this show me what I missed out on by having only brothers. It’s good to tell these stories, and I am sorry for your loss… I hope that thinking through good memories offers some level of peace.
who people not phone?

I have both (2 of each) and the relationships are different. But I wouldn’t trade my brothers, either. They rarely push my buttons the way both of my sisters did!

Writing helps with the losses a whole lot, actually. Since this is fictionalized, I had a blast writing it — I got to have a conversation with her again. And importantly, she could say anything I wanted her to say — hardly true when she was around.

Would you believe me if I told you that they turned out to be mass murderers?

Well, you shouldn’t. Actually, the story is fictionalized. The guys DID call me and invite me to the Cape, but I didn’t go. I was a good girl, and a broke girl. One important lesson I learned from my mother is never go anywhere with a man if you don’t have money to get back home. It would have been a long walk!